


leaving blues

by th_esaurus



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo wondered if he had done it a little out of pity; for the prince who had nothing of his own to claim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leaving blues

Bilbo Baggins lay in his bed, the bed he had slept in for fifty-some years, and listened to strange voices singing sad hymns about distant mountains. The song was old and rich, made older and richer still through the walls of Bilbo's crooked little house, aged by the wood like a strong whiskey and just as hard to palate. He knew nothing of such longing. Hobbits longed only for good food and warm beds and half-decent conversation, and none of these were ever missing long in the Shire. His people sang of drunkards and old wives' tales and randy fishermen; not ageless stone and ancient slights. 

The voice of the prince rang out like a low tuning fork, more earnest and knowing than all the rest.

Bilbo shucked his duvet up around his ears. He could be a stubborn mule, when his mind was made up, and he refused to let campfire songs and dark baritones guilt him into self-doubt. He was no adventurer. He disliked—unexpected things.

*

It was the first of many.

*

He was woken with purpose; by a single set of heavy boots and a voice that might have murmured his name. It took him a few bleary blinks to come awake. The prince was sat on the cusp of his bed; the mattress sank under him, and he had to stoop just a little under the low roof of the four-poster. "Mister Oakenshield," Bilbo said, feeling quite absurd. How did one address a dwarven prince with suitable gravitas, when one was in nightclothes?

Thorin did not acknowledge him. He was sitting half way up the bed, closer to Bilbo's chest than his feet. There was still a faint glow from the embers of fire out in the drawing room, and it lit Thorin up like a half-finished painting. He had a very noble, fierce sort of brow from this low angle, the sort of brow Bilbo never saw on his own folk, for they were all rounded and quaint.

"You will not join us, then?" Thorin said, after a time.

Bilbo strugged to sit up; clasped his hands and then unclasped them, and then sighed. "I think your quest is very—noble. But it's little to do with me." He smiled, shrugged somewhat helplessly. "What use would I be, save getting underfoot?"

"The Wizard thinks you nimble. Light on your feet." Thorin cast a glance down, as if he did not entirely agree. "We dwarves are not creatures of subtlety." It seemed like a blunt admission, and Bilbo nodded at once; he hoped the prince did not notice. 

"And I've no idea where Gandalf's got his notion that Hobbits are." 

Thorin looked at him very hard, a glare that seemed to strip him to his core; right down to his cowardice. All Bilbo could do was clear his throat. He offered his hand for Thorin to shake, but couldn't quite meet his eyes.  
"I wish you luck?" he tried. 

Thorin did not accept the faint gesture of good will.

Instead, he took Bilbo by the wrist. His grip was firm enough to make Bilbo wince, and when he tugged, Bilbo could only go to him. Thorin took the hobbit's soft face in his palm, and seemed to map it all over, to search for some deep sincerity in Bilbo's wide eyes. His rough thumb, skin burnt hard, pushed up at Bilbo's cheek roughly for a second, and then smoothed over the sting. Their faces this close, strands of Thorin's untamed hair prickled at his face and shoulders like dry summer grass.

"I really do wish you luck," Bilbo whispered. 

This long night, not a single thing had been explained to him until he had scratched at it like a persistent bird with a scrap of bark. He was much tired, and much confused, and he did not know how to ask Thorin for an explanation. He just let Thorin hold his face still with one hand, and unlace his breeches with the other.

Bilbo was no unblossomed flower, having found his colour and vitality some good years back, in his youth; the dwarf, strong though he was, would not break him. Thorin was swift and sure-handed, relieving Bilbo of his breeches and nightshirt, and straddling the hobbit heavily, as though to restrain him. Bilbo made no tussle. He stared up at Thorin and bit his lips shut. 

He would think about it, moons later, wondering why he had allowed it at all. He had the beginnings of a reputation as a miser in the Shire, courteous enough but short with his words and quick to snap. But he loosed none of it on Thorin. He supposed, at the time, that he felt himself a disappointment to the prince: no burglar, no adventurer, he couldn't even let his dishes alone without fretting. He could be more at ease with these baser, homelier instincts; he could give his sex up far more easily, for a night, than he could everything else he had ever known.

Bilbo wondered, too, if he had done it a little out of pity, for the prince who had nothing of his own to claim.

Thorin's body covered his own quite easily. He could not undress and keep Bilbo still both at once, so the hobbit muttered, "Here, just—" and squeezed his hands between them, and by touch freed Thorin's heavy prick from his leathers. Thorin eased up, allowed his hands to linger a little. He was, Bilbo guessed, tall for a dwarf, and thick-set all over, and he stroked the prince's cock tentatively, to guess what it would feel like pressed inside him. Uncomfortable, he suspected. But not—without merit. 

Thorin looked at him, and Bilbo felt intensely judged, as though there were a dark storm behind the prince's eyes that he could neither fathom nor traverse. They tripped each other up so. 

Bilbo shifted up, shuffled back, and spread his legs, and put his hands on Thorin's hips. 

"Give me the word," Thorin said, very low, "And I shall stop."

Bilbo nearly rolled his eyes, uncouth as it was. "I'm afraid I sincerely doubt that," he said hotly, and Thorin nodded in honest agreement.

And then he bowed his head and took the hobbit's cock between his lips and urged him along until he was quite hard. Bilbo hissed against it, his hands clutching air to stop from pushing into the prince's locks, for that wouldn't do at all; it wouldn't do, and the thought of it and the lathe of Thorin's tongue made him hard in just about no time. The firelight was altogether gone by now, and Thorin was a dark blot between his legs, the noble silver streaks in his hair almost invisible. He pushed Bilbo's legs up from the hip, dug further still, took in and tasted Bilbo's body whole, his wet tongue paving the way for things yet to come. 

Bilbo didn't know if dwarves kissed, or held each other, or whispered joyful little nonsenses to one another, so he did none of these for the strange prince who had lost his way finding Bilbo's house, and apparently lost his way leaving it. All he could do instead was turn when Thorin urged him, kneel when Thorin bade it. 

It seemed as though something should be said, and they both waited, and they both missed the opportunity. Thorin covered Bilbo's whole back with his body, and locked an arm around his chest like an anchor, and drove in. 

It burnt something awful, and Thorin felt it too. His thrust stuttered and his grip faltered, but they were past the point of apology now, and Bilbo arched back, forced Thorin in to his hilt, claimed the worst of it for himself. "You are—" Thorin began, and Bilbo hushed him, snapped that he would not be called small, and jerked his hips once more. 

Thorin stroked his side to quell him. It was an odd state of affairs, but it brought them onto more even footing, at least. He began to find his rhythm. And against that rhythm, he hummed very low in his throat, almost incoherent, almost inaudible, the song of the mountain that he loved.

Bilbo could not work out, even in hindsight, so much later, what Thorin wanted of him. He was gentle enough not to consume; forceful enough not to be called a lover; desperate enough that Bilbo thought of him, in that moment, as a man condemned to his fate. Was this his farewell? Did he take it in this stranger's bed, with this low creature, because he felt ashamed? Or because, simply, this was his last opportunity?

Bilbo thought the prince would spit if he knew he was being pitied so. 

He rocked back to meet Thorin's thrust every time.

*

Bilbo woke to an already-broken dawn and the trill of birdsong. 

His bedroom smelt of semen and salt; the rest of the house like old smoke and stale wine. He staggered from his bed and bundled up his sheets, flicking up his breeches from the floor with a deft foot and catching it on top of the pile.

He supposed, in his heart, he knew the house would be empty. It wouldn't do for him to go padding round nude as a babe in front of guests. 

His step was soft and sore. 

He bathed, shortly, and dressed, haphazardly, and searched his pantry cursing, picking at crumbs for breakfast. On the table in front of his drawing room fire, lay the dwarves' contract, and Thorin's pipe. It could have been any of the company's, Bilbo supposed; but he imagined it was Thorin's.

He sighed out a deep breath that he might have been holding for a very long time.

And then he gathered up what he could, and packed it optimistically into his overnight back, and pocketed the pipe, and grabbed the contract, and Bilbo Baggins fled.


End file.
